


it couldn't be me and be her (without you)

by abrae



Series: in between days [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Angst, Despair, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-20 15:41:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2434115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abrae/pseuds/abrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The third of three fill-in-the-blank ficlets that look at the immediate aftermath of Sherlock's shooting of Magnussen, from John's, Mary's, and Sherlock's perspectives, respectively.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it couldn't be me and be her (without you)

**Author's Note:**

> agnesanutter prompted rain, dancing, goodbyes

** December 27, 2014 **

  
It could be worse, Sherlock supposes.

The last time he found himself incarcerated, he had been locked in a small, concrete bunker with no windows and only the overpowering stench of urine to keep him distracted. In contrast, this holding cell - located, if his observations are correct, somewhere just on the eastern outskirts of Bristol - is practically a luxury hotel, complete with indoor plumbing, bright, fluorescent  light, painted walls, and a small, barred window up near the ceiling. 

Sherlock lies on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, and gazes up at the window, allowing the rainy gloom beyond to seep into his bones. There are no puzzles here, no mysteries to solve; there's no future, and the past...

Images flit unbidden against the windows of his mind - bright butterflies of happier days when Sherlock was  _alive_. Their cruel wings flash cold sea blue, ripened wheat, gunmetal grey, and he wants to reach out, lay his fingertips on them and know what the colours feel like under his skin. But there lies madness, so he turns away from their frantic beats, shutters the windows and walks away - down a distant corridor and up a decrepit staircase. 

Sherlock turns on his side and curls in on himself. It's the waiting that's the worst, but he's known that since Serbia.

An hour - a day - later, he hears the sharp click of sturdy British shoes in the hallway outside. Sherlock doesn't rise; he knows who's come, and he wouldn't want to fail to live down to Mycroft's expectations. The door should creak - it's the only suitable entrance for a villain - but its well-oiled hinges rob it of sound, a quiet shuffle of feet Sherlock's only indication that his brother has entered.

"You can open your eyes, Sherlock," Mycroft says drily. "I know you're awake."

Sherlock's eyes remain shut, his arms tightening around a too-thin torso. Mycroft sighs audibly.

"You're not a schoolboy anymore, Sherlock. You've killed a man in cold blood - have you nothing to say?"

Sherlock sits bolt upright to face his brother, his bare feet resting on the chilly floor, and his eyes flash in irritation.

"Yes," he answers icily. "I'd happily do it again."

He casts a challenging glare at Mycroft, who's leaning against the wall, arms crossed, in rolled-up shirt sleeves and waistcoat, patently refusing to take the bait.

"Why?" Mycroft asks. "She's an _assassin_ \- the file on 'Mrs. Mary Watson' is a mile long, yet you would risk your own freedom, your very life, to save her? I fail to understand, Sherlock."

Sherlock says nothing, simply locks Mycroft's cold, questioning stare with his own angry eyes, then spins around on the bed to curl up again, this time facing the wall. Minutes pass in silence, the impasse broken only when Sherlock quietly echoes, "Why?"

And perhaps it's because Sherlock can't see him that there's a certain softness to Mycroft's response.

"Please, Sherlock," he quietly implores. "Why did you do this?"

Sherlock listens to the beating of his heart for a long moment, wondering absently if Mycroft can hear it, too.

"Sentiment," he eventually murmurs to the wall.

Mycroft gives a small huff. 

"You can't be serious. Mary Mor -" A soft intake of air, barely perceptible.  " _Oh_. Oh, I see."

Sherlock wants to shout at Mycroft not to be a moron, to accuse him of having always known and throw his 'surprise' back in his face. Sherlock wants to push Mycroft aside, bolt for the door and make a break for his freedom. He wants a life, running in the open air; he wants _out_ , he wants --

"They've agreed that you're far more valuable to us in the field than incarcerated. You're set to leave for Eastern Europe within the week."

His big brother has vanished in the space of a sigh, replaced by the career bureaucrat he's had far too many dealings with. Sherlock nods in acknowledgement, then asks in a voice that will be hoarse, no matter that he tries to keep it steady, "Six months?"

Mycroft clears his throat.

"Give or take," he answers, his voice no more controlled than his brother's.

Silence thickens the air between them, and there are no words adequate enough to break it. After a time, Sherlock feels four tentative fingertips press lightly against his shoulder, then slide into his hair, gently rubbing the matted curls beneath them before vanishing altogether. He hears Mycroft's retreat in his distant footfall and clenches his arms tight around his waist, swallowing past the lump in his throat as a hot, unwanted tear rolls down his nose to splatter against the white pillowcase.

He has a future, for as long as it lasts, and it's enough. There's no hope there (not that there ever was); and so, for once, Sherlock allows himself the furtive indulgence of making his way back down that lonely corridor in his mind, throwing open the window and taking John in his arms to whirl in a kaleidoscope dance without end.

**Author's Note:**

> For what happens next (besides 'he gets out and something involving Moriarty or not happens') - [Interlude](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1737686) in the series [In the Fullness of Time](http://archiveofourown.org/series/110999)


End file.
